Hunted (Craig Hunter Police Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Unlikely. Unless he’s also faking the Brisbane accent.’ Chantal got in Maxwell’s face. ‘Do you know a Sean Tulloch?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘So who were you running from?’

  Maxwell tried to glance round at Hunter but didn’t make it very far. ‘Look, I’ve got the new series of “Game of Thrones” on a memory stick. Thought you were after that.’

  A low-profile case of copyright infringement. Bloody terrific.

  FOUR

  Chantal

  Chantal pushed Maxwell towards one of Davies’s Transport cops.

  All that hassle for a USB drive full of some fantasy TV show. A minor crime, but he’d be lucky to avoid prison for his ad hoc escape. Hope it was worth it . . .

  ‘Can you process him for trespassing on the tracks, please?’ She got a nod as a female BTP officer uniform led Maxwell away. ‘So, where is Tulloch?’

  Hunter frowned at her. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. He raised his shoulders.

  ‘The other big guy who got off the train is one Keith Brannigan.’ Chantal glowered at him. ‘Tulloch wasn’t on that train, Craig.’

  ‘Terrific.’ Hunter stepped backwards with a squelch. ‘Well, this day just keeps getting better.’

  ‘And you stink.’

  ‘Craig, Craig, Craig.’ Elvis grinned wide. ‘You caught some rube with “Tits and Dragons” on a stick. Man . . .’ His nostrils twitched. ‘Did he piss all over you?’

  Hunter couldn’t make eye contact with him. ‘You said he was on that train.’

  ‘Aye, he was.’ Elvis’s tongue flicked across his lips. ‘Must’ve got off somewhere between here and Inverness.’

  Chantal got between them. ‘Paul, I need you and Jenny to get down to Galashiels now and take a statement from Paisley Sanderson.’

  Elvis’s shoulders slumped. ‘Don’t you want me to help find him, Sarge?’

  ‘You can do both. If Jenny drives, you can muck about on your laptop.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I want to know everything Sean Tulloch’s done to her. Every little detail. And I want you to compare it to the other victims. Is she different in any way? Is there something we’ve missed about the others that could get them to talk?’

  ‘But I’ve got to get away at—’

  She put a finger to his lips. ‘Constable, her abuser is still at large. Every time Sean Tulloch’s back on leave, he aggravates the suffering he’s already caused her. We have to assume he’s guilty of them same crimes with each of the other four victims, until we can persuade them to add their testimony. Now, if you don’t have any more pressing engagements, we’re going to stop him.’

  ‘Look, it’s—’

  ‘You’ve got three hours overtime tonight, you can go when the statement’s done.’

  ‘But, Sarge—’

  ‘But nothing.’ Chantal took a step forward, her eyes cold slits now. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know how to take a statement?’

  ‘No, it’s—’

  ‘You’re a DC, Paul. You take statements. And I’m your boss, so you take orders from me. Understood?’

  Elvis looked away with a glower. ‘Right. Fine.’

  Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You live in Dalkeith, Paul. Galashiels isn’t a million miles from home.’

  Elvis’s nostrils twitched. ‘Please tell me you haven’t got any of that piss on me?’

  Chantal sniffed at Hunter’s trousers. ‘You’ll need to get to Markies for a new fighting suit, Craig.’ She started off towards Davies, a tone of reconciliation creeping back into her voice. ‘I’ll see what I can do about you trespassing on the tracks . . .’

  * * *

  Chantal overtook a lorry on the inside lane. The wipers struggled to cope as the pool car thundered along the M8, dirty rain spraying across the windscreen.

  What a disaster. What an absolute disaster.

  Tulloch had given them the slip. He was out there, somewhere. Which meant he knew they were after him. Didn’t it?

  She reached over and flicked on the radio.

  ‘—Meanwhile, Newcastle detectives investigating the disappearance of young Harry Jack from his home in Alnwick last night believe he might have been taken to Portugal. DI Jonathan Bruce of Northumbria police had this—’

  Chantal snapped it off and glanced over. ‘You can thank me, you know?’

  ‘What, for being a pervert?’ Hunter rubbed at his new trousers. Even she could still smell the vague whiff of stale piss rising off him. ‘These are far too bloody tight. You can see my balls, can’t you?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking. But if they do compress your gut, you might think twice about chasing the wrong guy next time.’ Chantal flicked the indicator left and pulled off onto the slip road for Bathgate. ‘I meant that you can thank me for getting you off a charge for trespassing on the tracks.’

  Hunter ran a hand over his skinhead, his nails rasping on the dark stubble. ‘Those Transport cops would have to catch me first.’ Another tug at his trousers let out another blast of urine odour. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Get my ovaries chewed by the boss.’

  Hunter scowled over at her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Get my ovaries chewed by the boss.’

  ‘Even for Miss “I don’t do allegories, I do arrests”, that phrase sounds a bit laboured.’

  She groaned. ‘Come on, Craig.’

  ‘Well, you putting images of abused ovaries in my head isn’t in particularly good taste, given what we’re investigating.’

  ‘What?’ She sighed. ‘Right. Sorry. Force of habit. Something we used to say in . . .’ She barged through the roundabout, ignoring the honking Mercedes on the right, and powered up the road at the far side. ‘What’s your take on Elvis?’

  ‘Worked with him for years, on and off.’ Hunter stretched out his trousers, hulking thighs straining against the fabric. The swell of his bollocks, of course she had seen the outline in those tight trousers. Too many squats. Ever since he’d bought those kettle bells, he was worse than a teenage girl, obsessing about his fitness routines, buying workout gear off Amazon, talking about some Russian drill instructor on YouTube . . . ‘He’s got his uses.’ What? Oh, yes, he was talking about Elvis. ‘He’s got access to stuff us mere mortals would need a warrant. Means we’re not dependent on anyone else. Our own roving tactical unit, if a little less mobile than he should be. Do you reckon I should have a word with him? Give him a few pointers ahead of the next fitness test?’

  Chantal pretended not to have heard. Don’t fancy another lecture on functional fitness. Instead, she overtook a dawdling bus on the way into town and shivered. ‘So, I’m now thinking that Sean Tulloch has definitely got wind of our investigation.’

  ‘What, you think he was leading us a merry dance at Waverley?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like to me.’ Chantal exhaled as she slowed to the thirty limit. ‘And I’m worried about Paisley. You’ve seen what he’s done to the other victims.’

  ‘And I’ve seen that sort of sick shite before on the beat. And in the army. And I’m sick fed up of it. What these men do to women, treating them like punchbags? I’ve seen the fallout, I’ve seen the scars.’

  ‘Craig, we don’t know where he is. He could be—’

  ‘Relax. Tulloch can’t get to her. The Irish Van Damme is still at Paisley’s house and Elvis is taking the statement. Once that’s in the bag, we’ll prosecute him. He won’t get away this time.’

  ‘I wish I shared your optimism.’ Chantal drove into the station car park and pulled in next to a bottle-green Golf. The rain wasn’t making much inroads in the dirt clarted to the back. She let her seatbelt go. ‘Right, I’m starving. Do you want anything from the shop before I get a shoeing?’

  FIVE

  Hunter

  ‘I’ve got my piece with me.’ Hunter grabbed his bag from the back seat, his sandwich box rattling around inside. Hopefully the contents are still intact.

  His mouth watered at the prospec
t. Goat’s cheese and beetroot, with that lovely new rocket he’d been growing in the kitchen.

  Chantal checked her handbag’s clip. ‘Not even a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be nice. Thanks.’

  ‘Won’t be long.’ Chantal got out and wandered off into the rain, mobile in hand.

  Hunter clunked open his door and got out of the pool car.

  Judging by the rain, a proper west-coast downpour, I’d be better off in an Ark.

  A damp figure trudged out of the station’s front door, tall and athletic, marching off towards the Golf. Baby face twisted into a bitter scowl. DS Scott Cullen. He clocked Hunter and the glower deepened. ‘Craig.’

  ‘You look like someone’s caught you shagging their girlfriend.’ Hunter smirked.

  Cullen zapped his car and leaned against it. He exhaled, his breath catching in the nervous laughter. ‘Bit close to the bone that, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you can’t laugh about life, it’ll kill you.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘What brings you to beautiful Bathgate?’

  ‘Supposed to be having lunch with Sharon, but she’s too busy. Only she tells me after I’ve driven all the bloody way here.’

  ‘Hope she’s in a better mood than you are.’

  ‘Worse, if anything.’ Cullen opened his door and nodded over at Chantal, phone to her ear, waving back at them. ‘Cosy little morning with your lover, aye?’

  ‘Excuse me? We’re not an item, Scott.’

  ‘Aye, bollocks. I remember when me and your DI started seeing each other. Sneaking around like schoolkids.’ He shook his head. ‘We should get that pint sometime, Craig. I’ll give you some tips.’

  Hunter gave him another shrug. ‘Name the date.’

  ‘I’ll text you.’ Cullen got in the car and the engine roared. He rattled out onto the street, the left brake light on the bonk.

  What a day. You start off thinking you’re taking a statement, next thing you know someone’s pissing on you.

  A black Audi pulled into the car park and stopped by Chantal. An A7 or A8, one of the posh ones. Looked official, too. It slid to a halt next to him and the back door clunked open.

  An army Captain got out. Number two uniform, service dress, olive-green khaki. Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. MP stamped on a black armband.

  Sure to make an impression with the feeble-minded in or out of uniform, even though the guy was medium height, medium built. Total chancer, mind. He didn’t need to wear uniform on a police visit. He was just trying to intimidate the civvies.

  His simpering gaze settled on Hunter. ‘Captain Brian Rollo-Smith.’ The sort of braying accent some wankers spend several grand on public school fees to ensure their kids acquire.

  Hunter had to fight the urge to salute. ‘How can I help, sir?’

  ‘I’m with the Special Investigation Branch. I’m looking for a DI McNeill?’

  * * *

  Hunter stopped by the entry system and swiped his card through. ‘Follow me.’ He marched down the corridor. Feels like I’m on bloody parade again.

  Rollo-Smith frowned at him. ‘You’re ex-services, aren’t you?’

  Like it’s stamped on my forehead . . .

  ‘3 Scots, sir.’

  ‘Third Battalion, eh?’ Rollo-Smith gave a military nod, short and precise. ‘Lance Corporal Craig Hunter, isn’t it?’

  How did that twat get my name?

  Hunter returned the nod with interest. ‘That’s Detective Constable Craig Hunter, now.’

  ‘I see.’ A brief flick of the eyebrows ended the chat. Rollo-Smith couldn’t bring himself to speak to a lowly Lance Corporal.

  Hunter led the way across the busy office. A box of donuts was half-stuffed into the bin, the card and plastic twisted into a knot. He held open a door at the far side. ‘This is DI McNeill’s office, sir.’

  Rollo-Smith clamped his cap under his arm, frowning at Hunter, nostrils twitching. ‘Can you smell something?’

  For once, the room didn’t stink of Pot Noodles and Gregg’s sausage rolls. Just donuts. Sickly sweet donuts. And his pissy socks.

  Rollo-Smith’s aftershave hung in the air. Surprised he could smell anything over it.

  Hunter shook his head. ‘Nothing unusual, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rollo-Smith entered the office without another word.

  DI Sharon McNeill sat behind her desk, glaring at her laptop with an expression that rivalled the army man’s — impatience armed to the teeth with belligerence. She brushed her dark hair over her pale forehead and folded her arms across her blouse. ‘Captain Rollo-Smith, I presume?’

  ‘Inspector.’ Rollo-Smith took the seat opposite and rested his cap on the desk. He shifted his sneer towards McNeill and tilted his head at the door. ‘I’d prefer we did this alone?’

  ‘I’d rather DC Hunter stayed.’ McNeill smiled, though her eyes had missed the memo. She beckoned Hunter in and he sat next to Rollo-Smith. Didn’t give either man a chance to speak before she resumed control of the conversation. ‘I’m honoured by your presence here in sunny Bathgate, Captain.’

  ‘Yes, well, I was passing, as it were.’ Rollo-Smith cleared his throat, trying to maintain the high level of syrup in his voice. ‘I must say that I’m used to dealing with a DCI in such matters. That being said, and given the special circumstance regarding your superior’s leave, you will have to suffice in his absence.’ He unzipped a document holder and pulled out a notepad. ‘Let’s start with your failed attempt to apprehend a member of the Armed Forces, mm?’

  McNeill held his gaze and exhaled slowly. ‘We discussed this on the phone.’ She looked away, eyes briefly connecting with Hunter’s. ‘The man in question wasn’t Sean Tulloch.’

  ‘I’m curious as to why you thought your remit, at this juncture, extended to arresting him.’ Rollo-Smith scribbled on his pad with a silver ballpoint. ‘Have you got additional evidence or intelligence, mm?’

  ‘This operation was purely preventative.’ McNeill cracked her knuckles and leaned forward. ‘As you well know, these crimes are all civilian in nature and don’t relate to any time when Mr Tulloch was—’

  ‘Private Tulloch.’

  ‘—when Mr Tulloch was on Ministry of Defence business.’ McNeill let it hang in the air like the sweet tang of the donuts. ‘As per your agreement with DCI Fletcher, the MoD won’t prosecute Mr Tulloch until we’ve had a fair chance to obtain evidence. Then, when he is at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, you’ll have all the time in the world to conduct your court martial, assuming you get approval from the Home Secretary.’

  ‘I could rip up that agreement, you know?’ Rollo-Smith stopped writing and carefully placed his pen down on the pad. ‘You have yet to produce concrete evidence to me or my officers.’

  ‘You know full well that we’re still collating it.’ McNeill waved a hand over at Hunter. ‘My DC here was about to obtain a statement from Mr Tulloch’s current victim when he was diverted to preventing your officer from murdering her.’

  ‘Ah, the threat.’ Rollo-Smith swiped at his pad like a grandmaster at a canvas. ‘And you have evidence of this, yes?’

  ‘We’ve taken the mobile into evidence.’ McNeill rested her elbows on the desk. ‘Now, given what’s transpired this morning, do you honestly expect me to sit on my hands while you pontificate?’

  Rollo-Smith sat back and forced a creak from the wood. He rubbed at his moustache for a few seconds. ‘What additional assistance do you need from my officers?’

  ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘Fine? Well.’ Rollo-Smith picked up his ballpoint and clicked it. ‘You say you’re fine and yet you don’t appear to have Private Tulloch in custody, do you?’

  ‘You should’ve kept him at Fort George this morning.’

  ‘That is outwith my remit.’ Rollo-Smith clapped his document holder shut. ‘As you insist on repeatedly telling me, these crimes do not fall within my jurisdiction. Therefore, we are reliant on you capturing him on civilian territory.’

  Hunter cleared his throat.
‘Have you spoken to him?’

  Rollo-Smith looked at him like he was assessing how best to squash a fly. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I asked, have you spoken to Private Tulloch?’

  ‘Inspector, keep me apprised of any movement on the case.’ Rollo-Smith got to his feet and nodded at McNeill. ‘I’ll show myself out.’ He left them with a clicked heel and a slammed door.

  McNeill collapsed back into her chair. ‘Christ under a patio.’ She waved a hand at the door. ‘Are all military cops like that?’

  ‘He’s standard issue for the Royal Military Police. Barging in, expecting everyone to take orders.’

  Can’t get that look out of my mind. Rollo-Smith sneering at me, a lowly DC. Like a drill sergeant on my first week in service. Thinking I’m a bug, so far below him.

  Hunter’s fingers started twitching. He cleared his throat. ‘But I gather they’re all as bad as that.’

  ‘Great.’ McNeill huffed out a breath. ‘Well, my afternoon is going to be spent covering up that incident at Waverley. Thanks for that.’

  Hunter clenched his fists. ‘I accept full responsibility, ma’am. We should’ve exercised greater diligence when researching Tulloch. I should’ve triple-checked he was still on the train.’

  ‘And maybe not trespassed on the rails?’

  Hunter looked away. His heart felt like it would jump out of his chest and start attacking McNeill. ‘Sorry about that.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Craig, I know—’

  The door burst open and Chantal waltzed in, clutching a brown paper bag. ‘Sorry, Shaz, they were out of chicken. Has to be a BLT, I’m afraid.’

  Hunter stared down at his hands. His fingers were twitching like he was playing the banjo. He tried to stop them but he just couldn’t.

  Bloody Rollo-Smith. Twat ignored me like that. Treated me like an ant.

  McNeill tore open her sandwich and bit into it. The hot bacon smell wafted out, mixing with mayonnaise and mealy tomato.

  Hunter shut his eyes.

  Bacon . . .